Apartment
by Morgana Maeve
Summary: Axel.Roxas: :Yaoi: :Edited Lemon: The absences are killed him slowly, but it is loving that will finally undo him in the end.


Apartment

Morgana Maeve

Lonely. I'm so lonely. I have nobody to call all my own!

Warnings: Axel/Roxas. Everybody's legal. Yaoi. Sex. If you're under seventeen, don't read. (Not that I can stop you.)

Disclaimer – Square and Disney own all and would be shocked and appalled if they knew what their beloved characters were being made to do online. Unless they already know…

(oOo)

The apartment is cold, uncared for, and Axel's breath clouds in the air. Quiet except for the clanging of naked pipes and the muffled shouting of the couple across the musty hall, Axel's footsteps echo on the hard tiled floor as he closes the worn wooden door and clicks to the other side of the small room and to the whining hum of the refrigerator.

A blast of even colder air slithers out as he opens it, and a barren emptiness is illuminated by the lone, lonely light bulb. A carton of sour milk on the shelf, two weeks old. Greasy fries wrapped in foil. Limp spinach moldering in one of the draws. Brie cheese, unopened.

He settles for the Brie, an expensive treat he allows himself only once a month, and eats it with Cheez-It crackers, an ambrosia of the poorest sorts, but also of the most savory.

Out of the three chairs in the apartment, none are matching, and one is near the end of its life, wooden legs splayed in unnatural split, cloth seat sagging. Axel chooses the stronger of the three – the steel chair, uncomfortable but durable – and he drags it in front of the ancient television, the volume and channel controls still located on the front panel of the television itself. The remote is long gone, and probably long dead, so he turns it on manually and is rewarded with a snowy picture, lines moving through the screen, distorting the image, the volume flicking loud and soft. Nobody has paid the cable bill, and the only channels left are the basic ones, stupid and boring, but it passes time, and that's what Axel wishes it to do.

He is waiting, waiting for his fickle and aloof roommate of sorts to come back from a weeklong absence, an absence unexplained but very expected. He waits, has waited, will wait every night until Roxas comes back, if he ever does. Axel sometimes gets the feeling Roxas is ethereal and will one day vanish a puff of steam or melt away like the sunlight streaming through dirty curtains.

And so Axel waits and waits, and finally drifts off to uneasy sleep, the noise of the television coloring his dream in fuzzy black and white. He dreams of Roxas, of warm lips and cold fingers, of dizzying rushes of blood and screaming release. He dreams of pain turning to pleasure, of chocolate and tongues.

And then he wakes, the warped wooden door shaking on its hinges, as the wrong key is forced into the lock, and as the lock, unwilling to accept the invasion, fights against it.

It is impossible not to know who it is.

But Axel does not get up. He stays in his seat, feigning boredom, heart racing, legs shaking, trying to flip lank red bangs out his eyes. The hair gel has been gone since last Tuesday, and he hasn't the money yet to replace it.

The key prevails, and the door opens, and Roxas slips in, quiet as shadow and just as mysterious. He says nothing of his prolonged absence, says nothing at all as he shrugs off his coat and lets it drop to the floor, still says nothing as he kicks off his shoes, and finally, when Axel thinks his lungs will explode if he holds his breath any longer, Roxas does speak.

"What's on TV?" His voice is cool, controlled. Deathly soft and bored. Uncommitted. Axel cannot speak, the rush of words, some affectionate worry and some desperate angriness, dying in his mouth at the sound Roxas's quiet question, a question he has no right asking.

But then Axel shrugs, turning his face away, and makes a guttural, ambiguous noise as answer. Roxas glides over and stares at the screen.

"Doesn't seem very interesting," he comments, as if he has any right to comment.

"Eh," is all Axel can say without giving away his inner turmoil. But Roxas smiles at him, and in that smile is the knowledge that makes Roxas so powerful. His deep blue eyes see everything.

He moves quickly, standing in front of the television, thin body blackness against the light of the screen, and Axel determinedly looks everywhere else. Roxas leans closer, hands on the back of the steel chair, face still smiling, disarming for those who don't know, and Axel finds himself drowning slowly, eyes drawn to Roxas's blue ones. Closer, closer Roxas comes, eyes open, blonde hair falling around his face. Lips almost touch, a gentle brushing, a soft gasp from Axel – how he's missed this, how he wants this, how he doesn't, knows it's wrong but can't stop it.

Despite himself, Axel moans softly once. Roxas chuckles.

And still, Roxas's lips dance not quite out of reach, his hands leaving the back of the chair and running down Axel's arms, caressing knuckles and fingers, leaving skin wanting more, his hands disappearing into deep pockets, unbeknownst to Axel, whose eyes are closed, concentrating on lips, on the teeth nipping.

Cold touch of metal, a metallic click, and Axel suddenly realizes he cannot move his arm. Something slides noisily, clicking and catching on chinks carved into the bars, and he looks down at his wrist.

It is handcuffed to the chair.

He stares at it, does not comprehend it, stares at it more, and then in blossoming panic, finds his other wrist trapped in the same fashion. Wide green eyes connect with smug blue eyes, and Axel feels his heart rise in his throat while excitement pools in his stomach.

Roxas grins at him, shows his teeth, and whispers, "Do you trust me?"

And without thinking, without pausing, without any misgivings, Axel answers, "No."

And Roxas only grins more and ties the blindfold around Axel's head.

It is black, solid black, with no sheerness to allow any light through, no shadows to hint at what's to come. Axel can only wait, strain his ears, try to listen through the distorted noise of the television, only to find that the volume has mysteriously gone up, the snapping crackle filling the desolate room. He thinks he knows why.

Besides the blaring television, it is quiet. The pause has been allowed to linger too long. And where Roxas is concerned, pauses do not bode well. The pause ligers still, as Axel's blood grows hot with anticipation, sweat pooling just above the waist of his jeans, breath growing short.

Jagged sound threatens to swallow him. Heat collects beneath his shirt.

And then the cool feel of Roxas's hands caressing his face, uncharacteristic gentleness softly touching his cheeks, his chin, his lips. His tongue darts out, tastes a finger, draws it into his mouth, sucks on it, and he hopes Roxas's breath catches. He moves to the next, running his tongue up and down its length, feeling the bones, tasting its saltiness, leaving a slick wet trail behind as he plays with the knuckle, licking and nipping, red marks on white skin. Then it's the palm, skin creased, and the wrist, veins small ridges beneath the flesh. Axel rolls Roxas's taste around his mouth and finds it addicting in its own acrid way.

The hand leaves, and breath ghosts against Axel's face. Roxas is panting, chest heaving. He knows he will not last long.

Roxas pulls away, watches Axel with heated curiosity as Axel strains and shifts in his seat, eyes the bump in Axel's faded jeans, and feels the fire burning throughout his body. In one quick motion, Roxas pulls his shirt off, skin shocked by cold. He leans over Axel and laughs as Axel automatically tenses.

Hands return, cold and dry, playing with the buttons of Axel's shirt. He gasps, bites his lip as Roxas's fingers brush his skin, stroking lines of heat that dissolve way down in his stomach, making his heart dance and pound. He cannot see, can barely hear, cannot move, and is puppet to whatever Roxas has planned, but he surprises himself when he finds that he cannot bring himself to care.

Cotton peels away, exposing his chest, falls down his arms and pools on the seat of the chair, unable to fall past his wrists. There is another pause, and then hot breath blooms in moist clouds on his skin, and Axel strangles back a moan as Roxas breathes on him, the tip of his nose sometimes brushing against heated flesh.

It is torture, Roxas knows, and that's why he continues, tracing paths of moisture in random pattern across Axel's chest. His lips brush againstskin, and a mutinous groan escapes from Axel's mouth, open in quiet ecstasy. The groan makes the liquid heat coursing through Roxas's blood that much more unbearable, and Roxas closes his eyes and pants, and Axel rocks and sweats, trying to see shadows through the black.

But he sees nothing and feels everything.

And then weight on his lap as Roxas sits and wraps his arms around Axel's neck, drawing their chests together in a mess of skin and wet, Axel pushing his stomach against Roxas's in a frenzied thrust, and Roxas responding in turn, fingers tangled in hair.

They stay like that for moments, denim brushing against denim, moving together as one, the damp slap of skin hitting skin loud over the television. And then emptiness as Roxas leaves, heat flooding back as he returns and begins to kiss down Axel's neck, collar bone, chest. Axel tries not to yelp as Roxas's teeth close down on, eyes tight behind the blindfold.

There is pain, yes, sharp pain that will leave bruises, but that is what Roxas is. A bruise that never fades, always painful when touched in the wrong way. Or perhaps it is the right way.

He can feel Roxas's hands just below the waist of his jeans now, pretending not to know how to undo the buttons, and Axel curses himself for wearing jeans that have no zipper. Forgetting the handcuffs, Axel tries impatiently to rip off his jeans and end all this frustration with one savage thrust, but for the effort, all he is rewarded with is sore, red wrists, and a slight laugh from Roxas.

"Impatient?" he whispers into Axel's ear, and Axel clamps his mouth shut, refusing to give him the satisfaction of answer. His body betrays him, clenching violently down on nothing, waves of tight, constricted shivers rolling beneath his skin. Roxas blows lightly into Axel's ear. "Do you want it?" Axel's body bucks despite his resolve not to give Roxas that satisfaction, chair legs scrapping across battered floor, a half-strangled word escaping his lips. He is done fighting it.

And Roxas grins and undoes button after button, for the word was yes and that is what he wanted to hear.

The jeans don't come off easily, and by the time they are gone, both Roxas and Axel are panting, Axel from impatience, Roxas from working the jeans down Axel's legs. Then Roxas steps back and just admires the picture in front of him.

It is a sacrifice to the gods, unwilling individual presented as feast, and the god is pleased.

The chair is ice against his bare legs, and Axel tries to keep them from touching the metal. The television still spits static, crackling in his ears, and he wiggles uncomfortably, member stiff and hard and ready. Behind the blindfold, everything is shadow and dark.

Hands close around his ankle, and Axel stops breathing. They travel over calves, rub against knees. They leave, press lightly against jutting hip bones, making hips jerk side to side, a sensitive spot, and Axel tries to inhale and gasp at the same time. His hands tense.

The torture is almost done, and Roxas leaves again, only to come back, hot and heavy, two joining together to form one mass of heat.

The pain is sharp and burning, and Roxas has to stop once more than once. Sweat starts to shine on his body; heat warms the metal.

Their rhythm picks up speed, bodies pushing against each other, needs close to satiation.

Axel breathes into his ear, babbles nonsensical things that neither will remember later, whispers words Roxas hears, wants to hear, but will never be able to say back.

Slap of skin against skin, moans and groans, sharp intakes of breath drown out all noise. Roxas lifts his head, watches Axel's undulating body with a curious detachment, and then kisses him.

The kiss takes both of them by surprise, but neither really cares. It is a kiss of lovers, soft and tender at first, lips pressed against each other, lips parting, lips pressed back again. Tilt of head and the kiss becomes deeper, tender still, lips fluttering against each other. It's a kiss that says all the things that are never said, and Roxas can't handle the raw emotion of it. He bites down on Axel's lip to end it, but the bite is half-hearted, and Axel's tongue brushes against Roxas's upper lip, and he lets go, panting and shivering.

And then it is over, leaving two empty bodies to collect the shattered pieces strewn over the cold floor.

Later, when the lights have flickered out and the night is old, they break the few remaining springs left on Axel's old mattress. It is sex, rough and animalistic, spots of blood coloring colorless sheets; lovemaking has no place here. To make love requires a certain degree of lowered guard and exposition, and Roxas can't bring himself to allow either. So he loves Axel in his own warped way of absence and blood and hard sex.

The next morning, Roxas is gone again, and Axel stays in bed, curling sheets that still smell of their passion around his nose. On the table, held down by an apple and an orange, is fifty dollars.

(oOo)

So like yeah, Happy Valentine's Day! You guys are all my Valentines this year! I loves you all!

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the smut. Took a while to write, and I'm sorry. Hopefully I won't absent so long again!

Ah yes, and if you don't like, don't click the little blue and tell me so. I really don't care to hear complaints against boy/boy love. Thank you!


End file.
